In the Bleak Midwinter

The foster mother unhooked Clare’s coat from the rack. “I appreciate the chance to let ’em know without having to go through DHS and making it all official. I’m sure they’re perfectly nice people. Just terrible eager for their baby by this point, I imagine. I’ve seen it before. Waiting on a baby when you can’t have one of your own makes folks a little crazy at times.”

Clare had to drive around the block three times before a parking space opened up. It looked as if the boutique owners at this end of Main Street would have a merry Christmas. She could have found a space more readily a few blocks away, but she still hadn’t gotten around to shopping for new boots and her low suede ones had already seen more than enough snow and salt.

The Burnses’ receptionist looked up, startled, when Clare came through the stairwell door.

“Ummm . . . can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m Clare Fergusson. I need to see Mr. Burns right away. Or Mrs. Burns, if he’s unavailable.” Clare unzipped her coat and let it drop onto the asymmetrically striped sofa.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Burns is in court all afternoon and Mrs. Burns is working out of her home today. I could make you an appointment for tomorrow . . . ?”

“Oh—” Clare bit down hard on what she had been about to say, “—gosh darn.” She snatched up her coat again. “No, thanks. I’ll try to get Mrs. Burns at home.”

On the drive to the Burnses’ house, Clare tried out what she might say. Karen, did your husband shoot Darrell McWhorter? Or how about, Karen, did your husband father a child and try to cover it up with this abandoned-at-the-church-doorstep scheme and when that fell through, did he start killing everyone else involved? “Oh, shoot me now,” Clare groaned.

The Burnses’ house was a brick Italianate revival with five-foot-high windows and a cupola that must have given them a view of the entire town. Wreaths decorated with wooden fruits hung from the deeply-paneled front doors, which had the look of an unused entrance. Down the long drive, by the separate garage at the corner of the house, Clare found the back door.

Karen Burns opened at the second ring. “Reverend Fergusson? What brings you out here?”

“Well, I—” Clare stamped her boots on the welcome mat.

“Please, come on in. No need to stand in the cold to talk.”

Clare pushed into the narrow hall lined with hanging coats, boots, shelves of hats and gloves. She left her coat, following Karen into the kitchen.

“Is this about the letter-writing campaign? I’ve gotten some wonderfully supportive notes and phone calls from people, you know. Mrs. Strathclyde told me she actually called our congressman’s office to complain. Can you believe it?” Karen led Clare through a high-ceilinged, granite-countered kitchen into a small den done up in burgundy and hunter green. Karen waved at the glass-fronted barrister’s bookcases and the computer centered on a wide mahogany desk. “My home office. I work here about seventy-five percent of the time, now. When we adopt Cody, I’ll be able to switch to a twenty-hour-a-week schedule without making any drastic changes.” She gestured toward a tapestry-covered love seat.

Clare sat. She took a steadying breath. “Karen, I didn’t come to discuss the letters.”

Karen sank gracefully into a green leather chair. “You didn’t.”

“I know that the police have been asking you about the night Darrell McWhorter was killed. I know you both claim to have come straight home from work.”

“Claim?”

Clare leaned forward, trying to meet the other woman’s eyes. Karen tilted her head, examining her hands. Her fingernail polish matched the study’s rug. “I know Geoff wasn’t at home at eight o’clock that night. He was at Cody’s foster mother’s house. Wearing a suit and tie, as if he’d come straight from work, and smelling as if he’d had a drink or two.”

The lawyer looked straight at Clare, her beautiful face calm. “What are you suggesting?”

“It looks bad, that’s what I’m suggesting! Karen, you two have got to tell the police the truth. What happened that night?”

Karen looked toward the bookcase. “Nothing.” She compressed her lips into a tight line. “I don’t know.”

Clare slid to the end of the love seat until their knees almost touched. “Tell me what you do know.”

The other woman continued staring at the bookcase. Clare touched her arm. “Please, Karen. I want to help you. And Geoff. But you have to be honest with me.”